


an attempt to bury the hatchet

by scarecrowes



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarecrowes/pseuds/scarecrowes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This little prick - since he was ten years old, he causes problems."</p>
            </blockquote>





	an attempt to bury the hatchet

**Author's Note:**

> Done for one of the ficathons; Charlie/Meyer, implied, noncon Joe/Charlie, implied AR/Charlie.

After the first time (you’re barely touching on sixteen and Joe’s grip is a vice on your neck, his voice a snarl of abused power as he puts you on your knees,  _stupid thieving brat_ ) you find Meyer and drag him home with you, curl him up to you close and get him drunk and kiss him. It’s definitely queer, because you’re gentle with him and you almost fucking  _cry_  when he finds all your bruises and raw parts -- but he doesn’t pry into it, just says  _show me, Luck_ , and puts his mouth on you tight wherever you let him reach. He tells you something in Yiddish you don’t fully understand yet - you will, after a few months more that melt into years, and it becomes a promise you don’t ever need to repeat.   
  
 _I’ll be here._  
  
But for that time he was a lot smaller than you, and he told you that you could fuck him if you wanted - even though you wondered if he was too young for that, scrawny and mewling curses loud when you put your hand on his cock.   
  
(He only gets louder, with time - and you learn to play him like an instrument, tease him and get him to come enough in the span of hours that he can’t say  _anything_  anymore, just shakes and clings to you and you don’t think of anything except all that’s going to be  _yours_ )   
  
And Joe still puts you in your place because he thinks you have one - but it’s rarely enough that you don’t shake when you see him, except with fury. You go almost willingly because by then you have money and Meyer and  _Rothstein_  to go back to, spitting blood and fire until they can coax you back down again. It gets easier with AR, because he feeds sense through the cracks in your hatred, rests a hand against the middle of your back like your father never did and just says your  _name._    
  
 _Charlie._  He doesn’t say it the same, between reprimand and comfort, but it still holds onto you - even after he burns out too fast without asking you for  _help_ , like you never would and never had to. You tell Meyer with unwanted bruises around your hips and the old dogs tearing each other apart,  _soon_.   
  
And you’ll step over Joe like he never mattered, leaving nondescript with your boys and their guns in tow - it’ll be another year solid before a death threat gives you  _totality_ , New York spread before you like something you pulled from dead men’s teeth instead of your mentor’s unwritten will.   
  
Thirty-one and Meyer grins against your jaw, damp and heat between you the same as all you don’t need to say.   
  
 _No one but us ever stood a goddamn chance._  


End file.
